


in the dust and the dirt

by TeddyLaCroix



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Getting Back Together, Jaskier-centric really, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Slash, Sad with a Hopeful Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyLaCroix/pseuds/TeddyLaCroix
Summary: Following the separation from Geralt on the mountain, Jaskier has Feelings. Then he has Thoughts. Eventually, he has Actions.He stood, sudden, startling the woman who had been talking with him—to him, at him—smiling, sorry. He knocked back his drink for fortitude (for fear), tipped his head, turned, and—“Jaskier.”—and he’d only thought he couldn’t breathe before. But true asphyxiation was this: this name.Thatvoice.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 74





	1. feelings

_I’m just trying to work out what pleases me._

Whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t resentment and rage on a mountaintop, words wielded as wickedly as any weapon in the Witcher’s repertoire.

It wasn’t an icy chill slipping through his veins in the face of his friend’s inferno.

It wasn’t a solitary trek back to town, trudging slowly, too tremulous to fear for the future— _yet_.

It wasn’t being broken and brittle as he burrowed into bed, mind carefully blank, breathing carefully controlled.

It wasn’t waking up forgetting— _ **forgotten**_ —for one, two, five, ten fleeting moments that this, now, here, him?

This was it.

And the heartache crashed into him like a crescendo, and finally, _finally_ , he—

~~( _shattered_ )~~

—showered. Washed off the memories with the dirt. Rinsed away the rejection like so much grit and grime. Wiped the wetness from his eyes, and if that water was more salt than soap, well, who was there to give a damn?

He breathed. Carefully.

And life moved on.

This was hardly the first time he’d been cast aside, nor would it be the last. From his parents to his paramours, he was no stranger to not being wanted. If there was anything his forty years of life had taught him, it was that it never, ever failed to hurt, but it was also never, ever insurmountable. He would survive.

He owed a lot to Geralt. His entire adult life had revolved around him, in some form or another. Even when they spent months apart, the songs and poems and memories and experiences and, yes, _friendship_ , no matter Geralt’s bloody reticence about the word—it all kept them closely connected, ever in each other’s thoughts. And if he had, in all those years, failed to be the sort of friend that Geralt had ultimately needed, well. He would do right this time.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

He would give him this.

So—

Some days, it felt like this:

The world was foggy. Or he was foggy. Or neither were foggy, but he was cold and cloudy and _numb_ , and the world was so far away, and he didn’t remember how to fight through the haze and close the distance and _live_.

Those days began with a drink. And, often, ended with one, too.

Bread and ale were both grain and yeast, after all. There was no real difference, really. What was a drink for a breakfast, and a drink for a lunch, and a drink for a dinner and a supper and a snack and a—

_Sorry, I’m sorry. You weren’t fair to me, but I’m still sorry. I’m sorry to you, and I’m sorry for me, and I’m a sorry sort of man, and I miss you, and I miss me when I’m with you. I hope you’re happy, and I hope you’re a MESS, and I hope I hope I hope I hope I—_

But.

But some days, it felt like this:

Bees. So many _bees_ , buzzing in his blood, bold, brilliant, bright, their flight desperate and manic as they tried and tried and tried to lift him up out of his stupor. Because he was fine, he was _fine_ , he would be _fine_ , and he knew it, but he needed—this. This time to grieve. This time to rage. This time to scream his soul out into the ether, hoping—wishing—praying that just once, it might scream back, because he was so…

… so…

… _alone_.

So: he sang.

Because what else was there to do for a broken heart but make art? So he wrote, and he strummed, and he sang.

He sang in taverns, and he sang to the trees. He sang through the fog, and he sang through the bees. He sang songs tried and true even when they stung, and he sang to himself when he felt undone.

 _Toss a coin to your Witcher—  
_ You were raised by wolves and voices  
_—O’ valley of plenty—  
_ ~~As our boat is untethered from the dock  
~~_—O’ valley of plenty—  
_**Remember me, I ask. Remember me, I sing.  
**_—Oh, oh, oh!  
_ I t ‘ s a l w a y s l o s e l o s e  
_At the edge of the world…  
_ ~~I know your fingernails are the colour of rust  
~~_…fight the mighty horn…  
_ ~~Come back!  
~~_… that bashes and breaks you…  
_**Give me back my heart you wingless thing  
**_… and brings you the morn…  
_ (Pretending not to see your ghost)

He sang until his soul split. And it split. And it split some more. Until it was slivers instead of shards, it continued to split and sever and shatter, and then? When there wasn’t enough of him left to split any more?

He began to stitch himself back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. So. Hello. Good lord, it has been a while. Dipping my toes into a new fandom that took me by storm and hasn't let up for a moment.
> 
> This sad, experimental little piece was written mostly in two fits of late-night sorrow and tossed up onto Tumblr—my screaming into the ether, as it were. The response blew me away, though, so I thought I should maybe post it on AO3 as well for posterity.
> 
> Come weep with me on Tumblr! I'm [TeddyLacroix](https://teddylacroix.tumblr.com/) (main) and [JaskierPankratz](https://jaskierpankratz.tumblr.com/) (Witcher sideblog). If you'd like, you can also [reblog this story](https://jaskierpankratz.tumblr.com/post/612644532262141952/inthedust2), as it started life there.


	2. knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude: Geralt's perspective

**The thing was, Geralt _knew_.**

He knew where he’d gone wrong with Yennefer.

She’d fought her whole life to have control, to have power, to be able to stand on her own and overcome all the trials that came her way, because trials were all she knew. She could be cruel, cold, cutting; she played with people like puppets, pulling strings to direct them where she wanted them to be. He’d _known_ that, the moment he’d laid eyes on her perched disinterestedly within a sea of writhing bodies. Knew when he’d woken up in that jail cell. Knew when he realised she was trying to control the djinn. But for all her venom, she also burned brighter than anyone else he’d ever met: her passion, her power, her pride, all stars, all _supernovas_ bursting within her, raging with force and emotion and need—

And he’d trapped her. In a combination of good intentions and greed, he’d sought to harness her constellation. Keep it close, instead of just keeping it alive. In a moment of panic, an ill-worded wish to see her another day had been the collar to chafe at and choke her, so he couldn’t blame her for ripping at the restraints and walking away.

Nobody had ever made him feel as erratic and irrational and impulsive and _engaged_ as Yennefer.

______________________________

**He also knew where he’d gone wrong with Jaskier.**

The bard could get on his every last nerve like none other. He wasn’t Geralt’s first friend, nor would he be the last, but he was _different_. Strange. Special, even if he couldn’t put a finger on how or why. The Witchers, Mousesack, Nenneke—they were family. Extended family, distant, not seeing each other for lengthy stretches at a time, but all outsiders in their own way, and all people to come home to.

Jaskier… wasn’t home. Jaskier didn’t calm him. Jaskier was the roads, the rivers, the woods, the towns. Jaskier was constant sound, constant movement, constant _being_. He wasn’t even still or silent when he slept. If Jaskier was nearby, it was impossible not to pay attention to him. He was an entire population encapsulated in one body, and his energy, his positivity, his infectious cheer were confuddling to Geralt. He was the personification of the human spirit.

If Yennefer’s chaos was a constellation burning bright but lightyears away, Jaskier’s chaos was a festival: a riot of people and noise and unpredictability, shouts and smiles and seduction and song, some of it good and some of it bad, but all of it so very human, and so very _alive_.

Nobody had ever made him feel as exasperated and amused and protective and _normal_ as Jaskier.

______________________________

**But most importantly, he knew where he’d gone wrong with himself.**

It was a myth that Witchers didn’t have emotions. Anyone who actually knew a Witcher personally knew that. What Witchers did have, though, was years and years of training to compartmentalize those emotions and function around them in order to survive. Survive the scars from the monsters they fought, survive the scorn from the people they protected, survive the solitude that came with walking the Path for such a very, very long time.

Geralt was particularly skilled at ignoring, or at least dimming, his emotions. In the day to day, it kept him focused. Unfortunately, it also left him completely ill-equipped to deal with the forces of nature that were Yennefer and Jaskier.

It wasn’t an excuse: his fuck-ups were his own. He just wasn’t sure he’d get the chance to make up for them. He wasn’t sure if he even deserved to try. He was the White Wolf, a lone hunter better suited for the wilds than the towns… and yet, wolves were meant to be in packs, too.

Nobody had ever made him feel as angry and confused and frustrated and _stupid_ as himself.

______________________________

**To be honest, he’d never known how to handle Jaskier.**

When the bard had been a flighty 18 year old child who’d picked him out at a tavern solely because he was the only one not to insult him, Geralt had assumed his attention span would be short. When he insisted on accompanying him to Dol Blathanna and got bruises and blood for it, Geralt had assumed his survival instincts would send him running. Each time he fell in love—with Anarietta, with the Countess de Stael, and more fleetingly, with someone in every blasted town he passed through—Geralt had assumed, _This is it, off he goes to live out the rest of his human years_.

But no matter what dangers they faced—the near-deaths, the pain, the magic, the curses, the beasts, the bandages—always, Jaskier had come back.

No matter what Geralt said or did—insulting him, dismissing him, making him walk miles in the sun, mocking his music, and more often than not, simply ignoring him—always, Jaskier had come back.

Jaskier was… safe. But he was safe in a way that made him dangerous, because Geralt didn’t do _safe_.

He did fleeting moments of peace and rest and recovery before returning to the Path. He did sporadic encounters with other lives like pebbles in the river, bumping into each other and bouncing apart again, all meandering toward a shared but separate future.

But Jaskier wasn’t one of many pebbles in the river. He was a limpet that had latched onto Geralt, as soft and fragile as any mortal, but evolved to withstand the banging of the world with a thick, sturdy shell of his own devising. He’d proven to be surprisingly persistent and resilient, and over the years, Geralt had learned to accept this odd little creature sharing his time, his space, his river.

But somewhere along the way, Geralt had forgotten that shells could still be broken. He’d forgotten that words were a force as strong as any sword or Sign. In the wake of Yennefer’s departure, he’d already been up and swinging, and Jaskier had taken the blow.

And Jaskier was mortal after all.

______________________________

It took eight minutes for Geralt to regret sending Jaskier away.

It took eight hours to realise Jaskier had already left the nearby town.

It took eight days for him to give in and start searching.

It took eight weeks for him to begin worrying.

It took eight months to find him.

And it took eight seconds to understand exactly how badly he’d fucked up.

______________________________

Geralt didn’t recognise him at first. Stepping down into the tavern after washing off the remains of his last fight, he caught a familiar whiff—a familiar oil—and wondered—but no, it was mixed with a scent too stale and grey.

He gestured at the barkeep for a dinner, turned, and—

He still didn’t recognise him. Stepping toward a table in the corner, back to the wall, he settled down. He caught a flash of familiar hair—familiar brown—and wondered—but no, it was too long, too limp, too curled at the ends.

He accepted the ale a serving girl passed to him, looked over, and—

He still didn’t recognise him. Downing half the pint in one long gulp, he skimmed over the room, but his eyes tracked back. He caught a familiar breadth of shoulders—familiarly shaped—and wondered—but no, they were slumped listless and still in a way _he_ never was.

He finished the pint, looked around the room again, looked back. A woman approached. The familiar-but-not-quite figure looked up, and—

_8…_

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat at Jaskier’s unmistakable profile.

_7…_

Unmistakable, but foreign all the same. Lines creased across his face that Geralt didn’t recall. A flatness dulled skin that Geralt remembered being flushed with warmth and life.

_6…_

Jaskier’s lips curled up into a smile, but even at this distance and lighting, Geralt could tell it was fake.

_5…_

A low laugh followed the smile, but it was hollow and empty; a half-hearted performance.

_4…_

The woman curved closer, body language shifting from open and inviting to playful and intimate. But Jaskier’s didn’t shift in kind.

_3…_

Jaskier looked away from the woman, eyes darting around the tavern, looking for a distraction, an escape—

_2_ …

Spring blue met gleaming gold.

_1_ …

All vitality drained from Jaskier’s face. The farce of a smile dropped. His eyes widened, then shuttered. His lips tightened, then released.

And he turned away.

_0._

And Geralt splintered.

______________________________

Geralt didn’t approach.

He couldn’t. He didn’t know how to handle Jaskier. He’d never known how to handle Jaskier, but even he could tell a clear dismissal.

Jaskier hadn’t looked angry. He hadn’t even looked hurt. He’d looked surprised, but surprise had turned to distance, to silence, to stillness.

And Jaskier was never silent, nor still.

Jaskier was constant sound, constant movement, constant _being_.

Except now he wasn’t.

Jaskier was energy, and positivity, and cheer.

Except now he wasn’t.

Jaskier was so very _alive_.

Except now he wasn’t.

He wasn’t, and Geralt had no idea what to make of that. He wasn’t.

He was meant to be chaos, and he wasn’t. He was meant to be a riot, and he wasn’t. He was meant to be a festival, and Geralt hated festivals, but he’d tolerated Jaskier’s because it was warm and loud and bright and filled the roads and rivers and woods and towns with people, and an entire population traveled with them wherever they went, because of course Jaskier’s festival had been the biggest and the boldest and the brightest, and Geralt hated festivals, but he’d loved Jaskier’s, because—because…

Because.

….

Oh.

_Oh,_ he’d been wrong.

Jaskier wasn’t a festival. He wasn’t a city. He wasn’t the continent.

He was the whole bloody world.

He was _Geralt’s_ whole bloody world, and he’d burned it to the ground in an inferno.

And they were left with naught but ashes.


	3. apologising

He couldn’t breathe.

Eight months since the mountain, Geralt was right in front of him, and Jaskier couldn’t breathe.

Seven months since he’d stopped feeling like he was crumbling to pieces with every step, bleeding in his lungs with every breath, and yet, again, he couldn’t _breathe_.

Six months since he’d stopped reaching out for someone who wasn’t there, who was there, here, _now_ , too soon, too _late_ , and he couldn’t breathe.

Five months since he’d stopped flinching at Geralt’s name, and now he was flinching at the silence, and his hands were flinching against his glass, and his heart was flinching against his chest, and he couldn’t goddamn breathe.

Four months since he’d stopped seeing him everywhere, from the taverns to the shadows to his dreams, and he could. Not. Breathe.

Three months since he’d decided he was finally getting somewhere close to fine, but he wasn’t fine at all, now, and he’d thought he was better than this, but he wasn’t, he _wasn’t_ , because he _couldn’t breathe_.

Two months since the perpetual aching had ebbed and left behind only dull echoes, but this? This was not an echo. This was the real thing. This was the source. The eye of his storm, and the winds must have swept away the contents of his lungs, because he couldn’t breathe.

One month since he managed a whole day without thinking about the man, about the mountain, about the misery, about the moment the foundation he’d built his entire adult life on had fallen apart, and he… couldn’t…

 _Breathe_ , he told himself, silent, still, turning away and turning inward, searching for his sanity. Feeling horrible, feeling hurt, feeling _hateful_ , feeling—feeling—

Just. Feeling.

He’d been mending. He _was_ mending. He would continue mending.

One week since he’d started smiling smiles that were sincere.

One day since he’d started singing songs that didn’t twist sour on his tongue.

One minute since he’d entered a tavern intending to dance for coin and drink the coin and drag himself to bed.

One second since he came to a decision.

He stood, sudden, startling the woman who had been talking with him—to him, _at_ him—smiling, _sorry_. He knocked back his drink for fortitude ( ~~for fear~~ ), tipped his head, turned, and—

“Jaskier.”

—and he’d only _thought_ he couldn’t breathe before. But true asphyxiation was this: this name. _That_ voice.

“Jaskier. _Please_.”

Once upon a time, Jaskier would have given anything— _everything_ —to hear Geralt beg. To see him weak and wanting. To witness his vulnerability, his _humanity._ For all he insisted that mutants weren’t humans any longer, he remained the most human person Jaskier had ever known, and the gift of experiencing him _embracing_ that vulnerability, trusting in Jaskier, reaching out—

But once upon a time wasn’t now. Once upon a time wasn’t like _this_. This pleading—Geralt, _hurting_ , a quiet shadow in his golden eyes, his voice as level as always, but his eyes speaking all the volumes that his words didn’t—this wasn’t how he’d wanted it.

“Jaskier.”

 _Stop_ , he begged in the cavern of his mind, the command reverberating in the uncharacteristic stillness but failing to find its way out to his tongue.

“I’m sorry.”

 _Stop_ , he begged, again, louder, uselessly so.

“I wronged you.”

 _Stop_ , he begged, the third time still uncharmed. _You didn’t. I messed up. I wasn’t what you needed_. Except…

Except that wasn’t right. It wasn’t wrong, either, but it wasn’t right. Jaskier wasn’t one to self-flagellate, and once the shock and guilt and pain had passed, he’d known, he _knew_ , that it wasn’t his fault. Many things were—he got into more than his fair share of trouble—but the accusations Geralt had flung at him? Were not.

It hadn’t been his fault that Duny appeared at the ball. It hadn’t been his fault that Pavetta lost control of her power. It hadn’t been his fault that Geralt intervened. It hadn’t been his fault that Geralt, seeing the chaos the Law of Surprise could create, decided to invoke it himself.

It hadn’t been his fault that Geralt couldn’t sleep. It hadn’t been his fault that Geralt sought a djinn. It hadn’t been his fault that Geralt made that stupid wish. It hadn’t been his fault that it had driven Yen away—

“You are loud, and impulsive, and overbearing. You recklessly endanger us with your whims. You draw too much attention wherever you go.”

—and it hadn’t been his fault that Geralt was an absolute prick sometimes.

“But…”

Oh, boy.

“You were… _are_ , still, the most loyal, patient man I’ve ever known.”

 _… Oh_.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness. I only pray you know that… that I understand. That I was wrong to speak to you as I did.”

This was just—unfair.

“That I was unfair.”

This wasn’t good.

“That you were always good to me.”

Stay firm. It was for the best.

“You were the best—”

No.

“—friend—”

 _No_.

“—that I ever had.”

_No!_

“And I’m _sorry.”_

… no…

Jaskier lowered his head. Cleared his throat. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

And breathed.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, voice hoarse, strained, and unfit for any song but a dirge. “For not being enough.”

“What? _No_ —”

Was that an echo? Or an aching.

He breathed.

“For twenty-two years of following you, imposing myself on you, without really understanding your needs.”

“Jaskier, _no_ —”

“For what it’s worth?” He lifted his eyes, looked back over his shoulder, and met Geralt’s concerned gaze one. Last. Time. “You were the best friend I ever had, too.”

He breathed.

“Jask—” Geralt’s voice cut off, a thread of uncharacteristic panic choking him.

“And I forgave you long ago.“

He breathed.

Geralt shook his head.

Jaskier smiled sadly, but for the first time in eight months, he felt almost whole. Tired, yes. Old, getting there. But whole.

“See you around, Geralt.”

 _He breathed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If you are so inclined, this is also [available on Tumblr here](https://jaskierpankratz.tumblr.com/post/613732577584562176/inthedust3). Come yell with me about the Witcher at [JaskierPankratz](https://jaskierpankratz.tumblr.com/), or about everything else at [TeddyLaCroix](https://teddylacroix.tumblr.com)!


End file.
